I was 26 when I stepped on a plane for the first time. Rushed into a plane rather, since I almost missed the flight, but that’s another story. A good one nonetheless. I could not eat, you see, because of the clouds. The surprise of seeing them, their big white bellies exposed so perfectly round and revealing, they were all there and I could do nothing but stare all the way to London. I had this immense joy inside twirling like a crazed army of butterflies which to this day I have not been able to tame. Nor do I want to.

Because I love clouds.  Have you seen the ones that grow big and fluffy white after a stormy windy day? How about the ones that extend long thin fingers of orange over the sunset sky? Heavy grey ones covering a dark-blue sky in late October? Now you understand why.

A seemingly perfect blue sky is missing a special something. Think of clouds…

I once ran across the neighborhood with my little guy in a jogging stroller and unimpressed with my chasing of clouds. It was a windy dark October afternoon. And it was because of this.  You’d agree that it could not be missed.